I Don't Know How to Pray
I Don’t Know How to Pray
Learning the posture of prayer and giving up the performance
by Sara Kernan
“I don’t know how to pray.”
That’s something I felt for a long time. Prayer has stressed me out since my early faith. At youth group events I would feel my stomach turn when youth pastors would ask “anyone want to lead us in prayer?” I hoped that my deferred expression would make me invisible. That or I would end up volunteering just to end the awkward silence. But even then, my heart would race, my mouth would feel dry as I attempted to approach the throne of God in prayer.
What if my words spilled out wrong? How does one talk to God? How do I resonate with everyone? What words can I say that will make them respond with, “Amen”, and “yes Lord.”
Prayer became less about the posture toward God and more about performance.
I think it’s the writer in me. My testimony was born at the same time as my love for words. While I was learning about grace, the Beatitudes, reading through the Bible, and about the work of Paul, I was also falling in love with the words they were made up of. The room I grew up in reflected this in every way. My Bible, worn around the edges and duct-taped down the seam sat on my desk. Verses were scribbled and pinned on my board. A reading nook, curled up by the smallest window, was surrounded by ink strokes of Sharpie pen with words that I found particularly beautiful and profound. I took notes of Paul’s letters and of Webster’s Dictionary.
Words matter to me. And prayers are words of faith. The writer in me and logophile want my words to mean something. Especially when that audience is Papa God.
So prayer becomes performance. And in performance, there is no room for breaking character, for forgetting lines, or revealing who I really am off stage. Performance is rehearsed, with an expected result. My prayers became more of a choreographed dance, choosing just how close my audience would get to me.
But a shift happened in my prayer life from growing up to just plain growing. From childhood and teenage years to adulthood.
You can’t perform prayers when you are on the floor, crying out to God to see your hurt, this mess. You can’t tailor prayers into perfection when lament fills your heart.
You can’t perform prayers when you are on the floor, crying out to God to see your hurt, this mess. You can’t tailor prayers into perfection when lament fills your heart.
Lament taught me there is no space for pretending. God knows the very ache of my heart. Words carefully strung together cannot paint over what’s really happening in my soul.
In those moments, raw and untethered and without words, I didn’t know how to pray
But now, I think prayer is equal parts of honest, heart spilling petition and surrender. It’s the book of Psalms and Job’s outcry to God.
Prayer is not a performance. It’s a posture that asks, "God, do you see me"? It's trust in what I cannot see.
It’s David, fearing for his very life crying:
“Because of all my enemies, I am the utter contempt of my neighbors
and an object of dread to my closest friends—
those who see me on the street flee from me.
I am forgotten as though I were dead;
I have become like broken pottery.
For I hear many whispering,
“Terror on every side!”
They conspire against me
and plot to take my life.” (Psalm 31:11-13)
Prayer does not end there. Prayer only starts there.
“But I trust in you, Lord; I say, “You are my God.” (31:14).
Prayer is honesty and conjunctions that communicate, “God, I am hurt! This is scary! I feel alone!” But choosing to see God in the mess anyway.
Because I love words, I should love honest prayer. Because any writer and reader know that the best kind of writing is authentic, transparent writing. My love of words and love for Jesus no longer war against each other. I’m no longer performing for God who is omniscient and sees behind the curtains.
I no longer fear prayer but humble myself to speak before Lord of all Creation in honesty and earnestness.